Recruited by ASIO and the Signals Directorate George worked tirelessly as our front man during the Cold War.

Dear reader ,we return once again to our saga our heroes travelling upwards at last. But coming up for air? as Orwell would postulate or about to go down again.? Where the highs are lows and the lows are more marginal than Craig Kelly’s sense of civic responsibiity there maybe nowhere else to go. But their faith in themselves remains undiminished. We should all share their optimism. So take a pill, or another sachet of Bex powder,  pour a new years whiskey and play your favourite George Formby 78’s because in this episode our heroes may yet unlock the key, or wipe the slate and flush the system to do  whatever it takes to step into a new dawn, on the night of their new morning and pluck Honor Blackman from the jaws of victory, 

Read on if you dare. 

Ces and Quent continued in their fateful philosophising of their role as mere specks in the great confluence of what scientists refer to as history…

Before AUKUS there was the protection and security offered by the Maginot Line. George entertains the troops. (rumoured cause of the Maginot failure).

‘Didn’t Derrida, or Fukuyama or that other silly yank bastard or some other post modernist proclaim the ‘death of history’? Wasn’t it some froggy intellectual like Barthes who banged on about post- modernism and had us all navel gazing at why we should be guilty for inheriting two thousand years of collective wisdom so we wouldn’t die of small pox and believe that Obama was an alien or the Clintons reptilian other world- beings? Isn’t that the substance of what history is these days’?

‘Yup mate that was before instagram. Now history is digital. More histrionic than history itself. History these days is reality television. A twitter post from Donald or Clive Palmer and whatever Facebook morphed into.  The Meta verse’?  Ces enquired, ‘yeah something like that.  The Brave New Virtual World where you don’t even have to look outside, its all in the ether. You can spend an entire lifetime contemplating your navel then go up your own arse and emerge from between your false teeth and epiglottis and ask yourself what you’re having for breakfast? The whole realm of nature, ecology, natural history and everything that’s beautiful and can’t be converted into bits or meta- data is irrelevant, and all that’s left is shopping and self absorption. It’s a paradise for the self obsessed and infinitely more rewarding than stupid stuff like literature, music, poetry and painting. The skill is not in execution, but being so consistently self-absorbed you can fuck yourself on a daily basis and be replenished as you do it.  It’s nirvana of the neophyte. The miasma of the modern era. And you cant get more moderner than that’!

An Australian genius

The famous French Philosopher, ‘Danton Porquois-Pus’, Famed for boring people so tediously he turned to stone.

Quent shuddered at Ces’s distortions, malapropisms and grammatical inexactitude, but recognised the truth within. ‘You’re right Ces, here we are in deep space for all it matters a blue light to the front of us, Sophie and Terry at the controls and Benny-Boy in the rear. I don’t know what Foucault or any of those froggy post modernists would interpret this, but to my logic we’re more fucked than a refugee boat in the Arafura Sea looking for refuge, a decent meal and a fair hearing. Didn’t they say in space no-one can hear you scream? We’ve been yelling our heads off for years and no one’s listening. Not even Sophe, as she’s used to not being heard’. Quent paused for added emphasis,  ‘as a sheila?’. They had both arrived at an end point in Australian society, the role of women. Either of them knew to that conundrum there was no easy answer, as all of them in their own way had been touched by the hand of an all loving GOD.

Only known image of Fukuyama.

Just then the blue light stopped flashing and became much brighter, and within seconds they both realised that their theory about being in a vast subterranean chamber proved correct. For there in front of them to the blue light pulsed with a super-novan intensity, and they could see that it was indeed the lighting apparatus of a  dark box-like structure. And as the light grew progressively stronger they could see amongst the black the lettering ‘ Public Order Response Vehicle’ , the type used by Victoria Police. And the vehicle though painted deep black had stopped dead still. They noticed it had been equipped wth train wheels, (bogies) which glinted dully and what they next noticed made them grip the sides of their conveyance for sheer life, because their conveyance was poised upon a spaghetti thin tendril of steel and rail. Their specific track a paper thin thread suspended impossibly thousands of feet above what looked like a gigantic circuit board. A metropolis of underground buildings, warehouses and industrial infrastructure, all dormant, lifeless, model- like and yet, eerily real. 

Two Genius’s. In Australia there is no collective noun to describe more than one genius. A failure of our educashion system perhaps?

Why had they stopped, why had everything gone dead still and yet eerily quiet? Find out in our next suspenseful episode. “ A railway in the dark” or  “ the Tay bridge’ by Macgonnagal disaster epic  re-visited could be a bigger disaster” ….

Dear reader, we usher in a new year with our heroes Ces and Quent ably assisted by Australia’s most decorated soldier ‘Benny-boy’ Roberts Smith still no further from finding who defiled their Tea-lady Mrs Culthrope. Imprisoned, imperilled and impugned by nefarious agencies known and unknown they discuss the true meaning of Christmas and Boxing Day sales, transubstantiation, immaculate conception and the validity of Scomo’s Innovative carbon reduction plan reliant upon ‘clean coal’ and burgeoning exports  of the same Black- Gold to India and China. They may not know it, but their ignorance, like Australian domestic policy is going nowhere, which to many is a source of deep and heart-felt comfort. Now to a comfort of a more spiritual kind. More valued than bitcoin perhaps, or (with an election looming) fully franked dividends? Read on for more elucidation from a place where the sun don’t shine. 

Australian of the year Brittany Higgins? Endorsement to be sponsored by White King and Bex Powder.

Read on….

The tram,  conveyance,  continued in its upward trajectory. How do our heroes know?  They could feel it. They felt it In as much a fish might be upside down and yet feel no sensation of being upside other than the trajectory of bubbles. Similarly, our heroes were in a similar cast. The sensation of traveling upwards was just a sensation, but when you’ve been bound and dragged for weeks by arguably Australia’s most formidable woman, Sophie, ‘is that a retired law  professor on your back paddock shed’? Mirabella, you’re thankful for the most marginal sensation at all. To be honest our heroes were just delighted to be alive. 

“What is it Ces’? Quent strained to see the blue light flashing and dancing ahead of them in the gloom.

Either one of these men rumoured to either share or self sacrifice one amongst them (as an enduring symbol of Mateship)  “Australian of the Year’!

‘I dunno Quent, but the fact that it appeared to come from a branch line or from thin-air suggests we must be rather than in a thin tunnel, but a gloomy vast underground chamber? It stands to reason, like our nations parliament, though there’s no decision making and no debate thats even remotely intelligent it doesn’t mean that in that cavernous space there’s nothing at all? That’s what Mrs Culthorpe, Brittany and Tudgey’s secretary got into trouble for , there’s goings on in our federal parliament that are almost supernatural and yet to the public, there’s nothing beyond the garishly vulgar post-modernist facade, Scomo door stops and Tudgey’s view on Australian history.  Every way you look at it, what happens beyond the facade is just a mystery. Cos it makes sense, when you look at it this way, whilst overall, it makes no fucking sense at all. 

‘You’re dead right Ces, bit like Gods will and all that stuff about ‘little baby Jesus’, the manger, and the three wise men. If it were three wise women we’d be hearing all about it on facebook and instagram,  but with men, they know how to keep things quiet’!

‘Yup’, ‘secret mens business” ! Whichever way you look at it blokes know how to just get on with the job and keep their mouth shut’. 

They both wondered about “mens business’ whilst the blue light, pulsing and dancing with its ineffable and seductive glow remained as seductive and illusive as ever. The ethereal pulse and blue-ish energy so soft yet so enticing held their attention and they scarcely noticed as it began to pulse more quickly. And now with more illumination between the pulses they could just make out some shape, ill defined and immeasurable and yet, something within the light that was both physical and mechanical. 

Clive, Australian of the year for making other pollies look almost electable.

‘You know Ces?, Quent nudged his companion, ‘Sophie and this bloke Terry seem to be cast in the same mould. They don’t question either this or another reality.  They’re not schismed by wondering about souls, spirituality, imagination, the human condition and meaning. They just seem to be happy in performing their jobs. And in Sophie’s case if the job gives her access to wealth, cash, jewellery and status, she’s unquestioning. In a way , this’ll knock you,  she’s upfront and more honest about herself than anyone on the planet. 

‘You’re right, she’s got what it takes, whereas we’re just….outcasts, out- dated, effete, cast- offs from the hippy era. We worry about stuff, climate, ecology, equity and issues that no-one gives a stuff about.  Do you think that’s where we went wrong’?

Do you think al those years of trying to find the truth were wasted, cos in the end there was no truth.?

‘And whatever truth there was, was just sort of’ Quent searched for the right epithet, “manufactured’?

I mean what is our truth? Perhaps Barnaby, Tudgey, Christian and Dutto were right all along? 

Perhaps locking up refugees and squealers is really what modern Australia is all about? And in this era we have of womens rights, after the first flourish with the concept in the 70’s,  identity politics, and the environment. Its a set of issues about as short lived as Prince Andrews memory of whether he did or didn’t go to Pizza Express in Woking when he was usually shagging anything in skirts? 

Stand to reason, we’re on the wrong side of history’. 

Tudgey’s ex-secretary Australian of the year ruled ineligible by ACB for ‘ball tampering’!

Is this the end of history? Are Quent and Ces wrapped up in a heinous web of crime and intrigue because their history is at an end?  What is the end if it isn’t the ending? Can you have an ending when there’s no start? And who started it anyway? Find out in the next compulsively implausible episode; ‘You did or you didn’t but for fucksakes what did you do in the first place?’, or “ To hell and back, and then back again”.